


Yvonne.

by moonorchiids



Category: Salad Fingers
Genre: Blood and Gore, Childbirth, Gen, Gore, Halfway bisection i guess, Honestly this whole fandom is, It's fucking gross, It's him shitting out his own intestines, Mabel: Mister fingers, Mabel: Mr Fingers, Mabel: Oh my fucking god. He's fucking dead., Sort Of, Through His Stomach, Yvonne is practically it's own warning, bisection, i mean not really - Freeform, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:08:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24044890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonorchiids/pseuds/moonorchiids
Summary: Salad isn't feeling well.(tl;dr: a novelization of episode 9 up until he gives "birth" to Yvonne)
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	Yvonne.

**Author's Note:**

> listen i promise this isn't too gross.

He wasn't feeling well.

He felt cold, for one, a silvery chill filled him every time he moved, his elderly skeleton protesting just by its creaks and screams at him to just stop moving. That was normal to him; in fact, the pain of his joints crackling was almost therapeutic to him, as it was a bright constant that never changed for him. The wasteland perhaps was barren, and true, that was a constant as well, just like Mr. Branches, but the snapping and crackling were there for him even when the wasteland wasn't. Even in the safety cupboard when he hid from Roger; and oh god, he could still hear Roger's screeching and crying out, his vile demands seeping into his brain in a static-filled mimicry (or rather, plagiarism) of his own voice. Something foul, the noises were sudden and uncontrollable, and like always, he wasn't sure if Roger was really making these noises, or if it was just in his head. His memory was never the greatest.

He remembered now what had happened, what might have caused this...and he found it disgusting in an odd way. How rude of that tree to do what it did to him!

_"IT'S COLD OUT HERE! PLEASE LET ME IN!" It cried._   
_"Hm-hmm-hmm. I shan't allow you into my abode, unless you grow out of those roots, dear."_   
_"B-BUT YOU BIT ME TOO! MY ROOTS! IT HURTS..."_   
_"Oh, I did? Hrm. Lying to me now? Now you most certainly won't get inside."_   
_"B-BUT THAT'S...THAT'S NOT FAI-"_   
_Flashes filled his brain, and they were the most unpleasant ones, but he could tolerate them. Then it was his next memory, of the roots grabbing onto his left leg and dragging him towards the tree. Then the roots were wrapped around his stomach area and constricting, and he was screaming and clawing at the tree, but he couldn't do any damage. Just his hands flopping uselessly against the bark as they folded, his fingernail tapping his wrist with more sickening, horrible snaps and crackles filled his ears._   
_Screaming was futile because that certainly wouldn't stop it, but he still made a gurgling noise out of the sharp pain that filled him. Felt the red water...filling his jaw...spilling onto his legs...running down his face..._

Most rude of that tree; he loved those blue pants. Too bad that there was now a dark crimson stain on them. And, well, he was just fortunate none of the red water had gotten onto his shirt either; he'd lent his spare turtleneck to Milford Cubicle and wasn't keen to go back to wearing the white shirt under the vest; he found the turtleneck much more comfortable.

  
He was so very cold. Every breath ended with a gurgle, as he ran his hand over his bedframe, feeling the tarnish and rusted clusters of metal as perhaps to find some kind of comfort in his poor state. Something to hold onto. He croaked out a sharp cry of pain, though all that came out was a disturbed breath.  
Scarlet fever. Mother always said it'd be his final depart-parture...

He ought to send a message... .--. .-.. . .- ... . -... .-. .. -. --. .... . .-.. .--. -... .-. .. ... -.- .-.. -.-- ·-·-·-   
The rhythmic tapping echoed in his mind as he hoped he'd sent the message correctly. He clutched his stomach, feeling a sharp, angry pain. How most unpleasant. A slight amount of tears came to his eyes from the discomfort of nausea, his painful drowsiness.

His eyes felt heavy, but- ooh!  
Wait, is that- Agh...-t what he- AGH!- thi-THIIINKS?!

AAAAAAAAAAAAAEEEEEEEEEEEGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!  
Oh god, it hurt so mu- AAAAGHHHH- ch, so fucking mu-AEEEGHHH- ch...NGHHHHHH...oh, how he hated profanity, those words were most rude and most unpleasant, and-AAAAGHHHHHHH- it hurt so much that his mind fogged halfway through his thought, oh god, his vision was just as-ARGHH-cloudy...

Was that a- AAAGHHHH- there was so much caustic fluid and just as much pain. It was on his bed, on his legs, on his shirt, on his face, on his hands, on the floor, oh god it was everywhere. It was black, thick, but it raced out like a fountain. He gurgled, only to feel the same fluid filling his mouth and running through the small gaps of his quite rotten teeth. There was so much of it coming out of his mouth that if he had to guess, he'd-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRGHHHH...  
He felt something tearing, heard so many crackles and snaps, and his joints hated the sudden movements that he was making, of his arms further to his sides and some involuntary ripping between his hips. It shredded his skin, revealing the rotting, crimson-ish purple flesh underneath while the same black fluid kept racing out, with small lumps here and there. He estimated that it'd gotten to where one's navel would typical- AAARRRGHHH

He choked, he gargled, he screamed, only for fluid to race down onto his throat, making him let out only a strangled cry through the fluid that filled his throat. He realized something large; the size of perhaps a toddler, if he remembered their size from before the great waaaAAARRRRRGHHHH...

It hurt, especially when a splotch of black fluid splattered at a high speed at the ground in front of him. And he felt so, so sleepy too. And so, so hollow. Did he still have his intestines? Did he feel thinner? It didn't matter.

He fell back onto the bed, with all of this having happened in a matter of seconds, hardly able to breathe from the pain. He heaved out his breaths as well as he could have possibly done, but it felt like he had to get around a large clump of the same caustic fluid. 

He at least tried to look at the wounds, to assess his damage.   
His legs, already having been weak, thin limbs, were ripped apart from each other by the gaping split that severed his hips vertically, and carried up to what he could estimate was his chest. The fluid was still burning away at his flesh, eating away at it. Maggots that had once lived within practically everywhere of his flesh seemed to be curled up and encased in the fluid, becoming simple chunks. The red water, he savored coming out more than the black fluid coming out, with it staining mostly everything but his clothing, thank god. He started breathing incredibly heavily, somewhat concerningly so. He didn't seem to have his intestines anymore...and he couldn'-couldn't feel his legs.

He fell back again to the bed, staring at the ceiling. He was so sleepy. He decided he'd name it tomorrow...

**He'd yearned for this day, after all...**

**Author's Note:**

> he's not dead btw


End file.
